On poetry (1)

Brought to me by my Scumbag Brain at an ungodly hour of the night. I was forced to write it down, else I would have lost it. Thanks a lot, Brain. You sure chose the best time to inspire me.

"Have the poets left any hole in the garment ?"

Burn the cloth, 'Antar, and write in the sand.

When the wind blows it away,

It leaves a new void to be filled.

What is left to tell, you ask ? Nothing I say.

Poetry has already leaked from a thousand minds.

Verses number as atoms in a drop of ink

Or stars in a drop of sky ! 

They who have countless brothers and sisters,

Who are they but another sibling ?

Yet still, though one of many,

Is it not the drop's nature

To return to the Ocean ?

The nature of verse is eloquence,

Its faces many

Its point void

Its heart poet blood

Its body agility of the tongue

All effort is futile ;

Yet all winds run their course.

The course of verse is to flow from a silver foutain

To a heap of rotten trash.

No moutain and no mind stands eternal.